That very night, Rolf turned again with the latest news and the commandant's reports.
He was learning the country well now, and, with the wonderful place-memory of a woodman, he was able to follow his exact back trail. It might not have been the best way, but it gave him this advantage—in nearly every case he was able to use again the raft he had made in coming, and thereby saved many hours of precious time.
On the way out he had seen a good many deer and one bear, and had heard the howling of wolves every night; but always at a distance. On the second night, in the very heart of the wilderness, the wolves were noisy and seemed very near. Rolf was camping in the darkness. He made a small fire with such stuff as he could find by groping, then, when the fire blazed, he discovered by its light a dead spruce some twenty yards away. Taking his hatchet he went toward this, and, as he did so, a wolf rose up, with its forefeet on a log, only five yards beyond the tree and gazed curiously at him. Others were heard calling; presently this wolf raised its muzzle and uttered a long smooth howl.
Rolf had left his pistol back at the fire; he dared not throw his hatchet, as that would have left him unarmed. He stooped, picked up a stick, and threw that; the wolf ducked so that it passed over, then, stepping back from the log, stood gazing without obvious fear or menace. The others were howling; Rolf felt afraid. He backed cautiously to the fire, got his pistol and came again to the place, but nothing more did he see of the wolf, though he heard them all night and kept up two great fires for a protection.
In the morning he started as usual, and before half an hour he was aware of a wolf, and later of two, trotting along his trail, a few hundred yards behind. They did not try to overtake him; indeed, when he stopped, they did the same; and when he trotted, they, true to their dog-like nature, ran more rapidly in pursuit. How Rolf did wish for his long rifle; but they gave no opportunity for a shot with the pistol. They acted, indeed, as though they knew their safe distance and the exact range of the junior gun. The scout made a trap for them by stealing back after he had crossed a ridge, and hiding near his own trail. But the wind conveyed a warning, and the wolves merely sat down and waited till he came out and went on. All day long these two strange ban dogs followed him and gave no sign of hunger or malice; then, after he crossed a river, at three in the afternoon, he saw no more of them. Years after, when Rolf knew them better, he believed they followed him out of mild curiosity, or possibly in the hope that he would kill a deer in which they might share. And when they left him, it was because they were near the edge of their own home region; they had seen him off their hunting grounds.
That night he camped sixty miles from Ticonderoga, but he was resolved to cover the distance in one day. Had he not promised to be back in a week? The older hands had shaken their heads incredulously, and he, in the pride of his legs, was determined to be as good as his promise. He scarcely dared sleep lest he should oversleep. At ten he lay down. At eleven the moon was due to rise; as soon as that was three hours high there would be light enough, and he proposed to go on. At least half a dozen times he woke with a start, fearing he had overslept, but reassured by a glance at the low-hung moon, he had slumbered again.
At last the moon was four hours high, and the woods were plain in the soft light. A horned owl “hoo-hoo-ed,” and a far-off wolf uttered a drawn-out, soft, melancholy cry, as Rolf finished his dried meat, tightened his belt, and set out on a long, hard run that, in the days of Greece, would have furnished the theme of many a noble epic poem.
No need to consult his compass. The blazing lamp of the dark sky was his guide, straight east his course, varied a little by hills and lakes, but nearly the crow-flight line. At first his pace was a steady, swinging stride; then after a mile he came to an open lake shore down which he went at a six-mile trot; and then an alder thicket through which his progress was very slow; but that soon passed, and for half a mile he splashed through swamps with water a foot deep: nor was he surprised at length to see it open into a little lake with a dozen beaver huts in view. “Splash, prong” their builders went at his approach, but he made for the hillside; the woods were open, the moonlight brilliant now, and here he trotted at full swing as long as the way was level or down, but always walked on the uphill. A sudden noise ahead was followed by a tremendous crashing and crackling of the brush. For a moment it continued, and what it meant, Rolf never knew or guessed.
“Trot, trot,” he went, reeling off six miles in the open, two or perhaps three in the thickets, but on and on, ever eastward. Hill after hill, swamp after swamp, he crossed, lake after lake he skirted round, and, when he reached some little stream, he sought a log bridge or prodded with a pole till he found a ford and crossed, then ran a mile or two to make up loss of time.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, and his steady breath and his steady heart kept unremitting rhythm.
Twelve miles were gone when the foreglow—the first cold dawn-light showed, and shining across his path ahead was a mighty rolling stream. Guided by the now familiar form of Goodenow Peak he made for this, the Hudson's lordly flood. There was his raft securely held, with paddle and pole near by, and he pushed off with all the force of his young vigour. Jumping and careening with the stream in its freshet flood, the raft and its hardy pilot were served with many a whirl and some round spins, but the long pole found bottom nearly everywhere, and not ten minutes passed before the traveller sprang ashore, tied up his craft, then swung and tramped and swung.
Over the hills of Vanderwhacker, under the woods of Boreas. Tramp, tramp, splash, tramp, wringing and sopping, but strong and hot, tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp. The partridge whirred from his path, the gray deer snorted, and the panther sneaked aside. Tramp, tramp, trot, trot, and the Washburn Ridge was blue against the sunrise. Trot, trot, over the low, level, mile-long slope he went, and when the Day-god burnt the upper hill-rim he was by brown Tahawus flood and had covered eighteen miles.
By the stream he stopped to drink. A partridge cock, in the pride of spring, strutted arrogantly on a log. Rolf drew his pistol, fired, then hung the headless body while he made a camper's blaze: an oatcake, the partridge, and river water were his meal. His impulse was to go on at once. His reason, said “go slow.” So he waited for fifteen minutes. Then again, beginning with a slow walk, he ere long added to his pace. In half an hour he was striding and in an hour the steady “trot, trot,” that slackened only for the hills or swamps. In an hour more he was on the Washburn Ridge, and far away in the east saw Schroon Lake that empties in the river Schroon; and as he strode along, exulting in his strength, he sang in his heart for joy. Again a gray wolf cantered on his trail, and the runner laughed, without a thought of fear. He seemed to know the creature better now; knew it as a brother, for it gave no hostile sound, but only seemed to trot, trot, for the small joy of running with a runner, as a swallow or an antelope will skim along by a speeding train. For an hour or more it matched his pace, then left as though its pleasant stroll was done, and Rolf kept on and on and on.
The spring sun soared on high, the day grew warm at noon. Schroon River just above the lake was in his path, and here he stopped to rest. Here, with the last of his oatcake and a little tea, he made his final meal; thirty eight miles had he covered since he rose; his clothes were torn, his moccasins worn, but his legs were strong, his purpose sure; only twenty-two miles now, and his duty would be done; his honours won. What should he do, push on at once? No, he meant to rest an hour. He made a good fire by a little pool, and using a great mass of caribou moss as a sponge, he had a thorough rub-down. He got out his ever-ready needle and put his moccasins in good shape; he dried his clothes and lay on his back till the hour was nearly gone. Then he girded himself for this the final run. He was weary, indeed, but he was far from spent, and the iron will that had yearly grown in force was there with its unconquerable support.
Slowly at start, soon striding, and at last in the famous jog trot of the scout he went. The sky was blackened with clouds at length, and the jealous, howling east wind rolled up in rain; the spindrift blurred the way; the heavy showers of spring came down and drenched him; but his pack was safe and he trotted on and on. Then long, deep swamps of alder barred his path, and, guided only by the compass, Rolf pushed in and through and ever east. Barely a mile an hour in the thickest part he made, but lagged not; drenched and footsore, warm and torn, but doggedly, steadily on. At three he had made a scant seven miles; then the level, open wood of Thunderbolt was reached and his stride became a run; trot, trot, trot, at six-mile gait, for but fifteen miles remained. Sustained, inspired, the bringer of good news, he halted not and faltered not, but on and on.
Tramp tramp, tramp tramp—endless, tireless, hour by hour. At five he was on Thunder Creek, scarce eight miles more to the goal; his limbs were sore, his feet were sore; bone tired was he, but his heart was filled with joy.
“News of battle, news of victory” he was bringing, and the thought lent strength; the five mires passed, the way was plain with good roads now, but the runner was so weary. He was striding, his running was done, the sun was low in the west, his feet were bleeding, the courier was brain worn and leg worn, but he strode and strode. He passed by homes but heeded them not.
“Come in and rest,” called one who saw nothing but a weary traveller. Rolf shook his head, but gave no word and strode along. A mile—a short mile now; he must hold out; if he sat down he feared he could not rise. He came at last in sight of the fort; then, gathering all his force, he broke into a trot, weak, so weak that had he fallen, he could scarcely have got up, and slow, but faster than a walk: and so, as the red sun sank, he passed the gate. He had no right to give tidings to any but the general, yet they read it in his eyes. The guard broke into a cheer, and trotting still, though reeling, Rolf had kept his word, had made his run, had brought the news, and had safely reached his goal.
Why should the scout bringing good news be differently received from the one that brings the ill? He did not make, the news, he simply did his duty; the same in both cases. He is merely the telegraph instrument. Yet it is so ever. King Pharaoh slew the bearer of ill-tidings; that was human nature. And General Hampton brought in the tall stripling to his table, to honour him, to get the fullest details, to glory in every item as though it all were due to himself. Rolf's wonderful journey was dilated on, and in the reports to Albany he was honourably mentioned for exceptionally meritorious service as a bearer of despatches.
For three days Flying Kittering was hero of the post; then other runners came with other news and life went on.
Hitherto the scouts had worn no uniform, but the execution of one of their number, who was captured by the British and treated as a spy, resulted in orders that all be formally enlisted and put in uniform.
Not a few withdrew from the service; some, like Quonab, reluctantly consented, but Rolf was developing the fighting spirit, and was proud to wear the colours.
The drill was tedious enough, but it was of short duration for him. Despatches were to go to Albany. The general, partly to honour Rolf, selected him.
“Are you ready for another run, Kittering?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then prepare to start as soon as possible for Fort George and Albany. Do you want a mate?”
“I should like a paddler as far as Fort George.”
“Well, pick your man.”
“Quonab.”
And when they set out, for the first time Rolf was in the stern, the post of guidance and command. So once more the two were travelling again with Skookum in the bow. It was afternoon when they started and the four-mile passage of the creek was slow, but down the long, glorious vista of the noble George they went at full canoe-flight, five miles an hour, and twenty-five miles of the great fair-way were reeled and past when they lighted their nightly fire.
At dawn-cry of the hawk they sped away, and in spite of a rising wind they made six miles in two hours.
As they approached the familiar landing of Van Trumper's farm, Skookum began to show a most zestful interest that recalled the blackened pages of his past. “Quonab, better use that,” and Rolf handed a line with which Skookum was secured and thus led to make a new record, for this was the first time in his life that he landed at Van Trumper's without sacrificing a chicken in honour of the joyful occasion.
They entered the house as the family were sitting down to breakfast.
“Mein Hemel! mein Hemel! It is Rolf and Quonab; and vere is dot tam dog? Marta, vere is de chickens? Vy, Rolf, you bin now a giant, yah. Mein Gott, it is I am glad! I did tink der cannibals you had eat; is it dem Canadian or cannibal? I tink it all one the same, yah!”
Marta was actually crying, the little ones were climbing over Rolf's knee, and Annette, tall and sixteen now, stood shyly by, awaiting a chance to shake hands. Home is the abiding place of those we love; it may be a castle or a cave, a shanty or a chateau, a moving van, a tepee, or a canal boat, a fortress or the shady side of a bush, but it is home, if there indeed we meet the faces that are ever in the heart, and find the hands whose touch conveys the friendly glow. Was there any other spot on earth where he could sit by the fire and feel that “hereabout are mine own, the people I love?” Rolf knew it now—Van Trumper's was his home.
Talks of the war, of disasters by land, and of glorious victories on the sea, where England, long the unquestioned mistress of the waves, had been humbled again and again by the dauntless seamen of her Western blood; talks of big doings by the nation, and, yet more interesting, small doings by the travellers, and the breakfast passed all too soon. The young scout rose, for he was on-duty, but the long rollers on the lake forbade the going forth. Van's was a pleasant place to wait, but he chafed at the delay; his pride would have him make a record on every journey. But wait he must. Skookum tied safely to his purgatorial post whined indignantly—and with head cocked on one side, picked out the very hen he would like to utilize—as soon as released from his temporary embarrassment. Quonab went out on a rock to bum some tobacco and pray for calm, and Rolf, ever active, followed Van to look over the stock and buildings, and hear of minor troubles. The chimney was unaccountably given to smoking this year. Rolf took an axe and with two blows cut down a vigorous growth shrubbery that stood above the chimney on the west, and the smoking ceased. Buck ox had a lame foot and would allow no one even to examine it. But a skilful ox-handler easily hobbles an ox, throws him near some small tree, and then, by binding the lame foot to the tree, can have a free hand. It proved a simple matter, a deep-sunk, rusty nail. And when the nail was drawn and the place washed clean with hot brine, kind nature was left in confidence to do the rest. They drifted back to the house now. Tomas met them shouting out a mixture of Dutch and English and holding by the cover Annette's book of the “Good Girl.” But its rightful owner rescued the precious volume and put it on the shelf.
“Have you read it through, Annette?”
“Yes,” was the reply, for she had learned to read before they left Schuylerville.
“How do you like it?”
“Didn't like it a bit; I like 'Robinson Crusoe',” was the candid reply.
The noon hour came, still the white rollers were pounding the shore.
“If it does not calm by one o'clock I'll go on afoot.”
So off he went with the packet, leaving Quonab to follow and await his return at Fort George. In Schuyler settlement he spent the night and at noon next day was in Albany.
How it stirred his soul to see the busy interest, the marching of men, the sailing of vessels, and above all to hear of more victories on the high seas. What mattered a few frontier defeats in the north, when the arrogant foe that had spurned and insulted them before the world had now been humbled again and again.
Young Van Cortlandt was away, but the governor's reception of him reflected the electric atmosphere—the country's pride in her sons.
Rolf had a matter of his own to settle. At the bookseller's he asked for and actually secured a copy of the great book—“Robinson Crusoe.” It was with a thrilling feeling of triumph that he wrote Annette's name in it and stowed it in his bag.
He left Albany next day in the gray dawn. Thanks to his uniform, he got a twenty-five mile lift with a traveller who drove a fast team, and the blue water was glinting back the stars when he joined Quonab at Fort George, some sixty miles away.
In the calm betwixt star-peep and sun-up they were afloat. It was a great temptation to stop at Hendrik's for a spell, but breakfast was over, the water was calm, and duty called him. He hallooed, then they drew near enough to hand the book ashore. Skookum growled, probably at the hens, and the family waved their aprons as he sped on. Thirty miles of lake and four miles of Ticonderoga Creek they passed and the packet was delivered in four days and three hours since leaving.
The general smiled and his short but amply sufficient praise was merely, “You're a good 'un.”
“Thar is two things,” said Si Sylvanne to the senate, “that every national crisis is bound to show up: first, a lot o' dum fools in command; second a lot o great commanders in the ranks. An' fortunately before the crisis is over the hull thing is sure set right, and the men is where they oughter be.”
How true this was the nation was just beginning to learn. The fools in command were already demonstrated, and the summer of 1813 was replete with additional evidence. May, June, and July passed with many journeyings for Rolf and many times with sad news. The disasters at Stony Creek, Beaver Dam, and Niagara were severe blows to the army on the western frontier. In June on Lake Champlain the brave but reckless Lieutenant Sidney Smith had run his two sloops into a trap. Thus the Growler and the Eagle were lost to the Americans, and strengthened by that much the British navy on the lake.
Encouraged by these successes, the British north of Lake Champlain made raid after raid into American territory, destroying what they could not carry off.
Rolf and Quonab were sent to scout in that country and if possible give timely notice of raiders in force.
The Americans were averse to employing Indians in warfare; the British entertained no such scruples and had many red-skinned allies. Quonab's case, however, was unusual, since he was guaranteed by his white partner, and now he did good service, for he knew a little French and could prowl among the settlers without anyone suspecting him of being an American scout.
Thus he went alone and travelled far. He knew the country nearly to Montreal and late in July was lurking about Odletown, when he overheard scattered words of a conversation that made him eager for more. “Colonel Murray—twelve hundred men—four hundred men—”
Meanwhile Rolf was hiding in the woods about La Colle Mill. Company after company of soldiers he saw enter, until at least five hundred were there. When night came down, he decided to risk a scarer approach. He left the woods and walked cautiously across the open lands about.
The hay had been cut and most of it drawn in, but there was in the middle of the field a hay-cock. Rolf was near this when he heard sounds of soldiers from the mill. Soon large numbers came out, carrying their blankets. Evidently there was not room for them in the mill, and they were to camp on the field.
The scout began to retreat when sounds behind showed that another body of soldiers was approaching from that direction and he was caught between the two. There was only one place to hide and that was beneath the haycock. He lifted its edge and crawled under, but it was full of thistles and brambles; indeed, that was why it was left, and he had the benefit of all the spines about him.
His heart beat fast as he heard the clank of arms and the trampling; they came nearer, then the voices became more distinct. He heard unmistakable evidence too that both bodies were camping for the night, and that he was nearly surrounded. Not knowing what move was best he kept quiet. The men were talking aloud, then they began preparing their beds and he heard some one say, “There's a hay-cock; bring some of that.”
A soldier approached to get an armful of the hay, but sputtered out a chapter of malediction as his bare hands touched the masses of thistle and briers. His companions laughed at his mishap. He went to the fire and vowed he'd stick a brand in it and back he came with a burning stick.
Rolf was all ready to make a dash for his life as soon as the cover should take fire, and he peered up into the soldier's face as the latter blew on the brand; but the flame had died, the thistles were not dry, and the fire was a failure; so, growling again, the soldier threw down the smoking stick and went away. As soon as he was safely afar, Rolf gathered a handful of soil and covered the red embers.
It was a critical moment and his waiting alone had saved him.
Two soldiers came with their blankets and spread them near. For a time they smoked and talked. One of them was short of tobacco; the other said, “Never mind, we'll get plenty in Plattsburg,” and they guffawed.
Then he heard, “As soon as the colonel” and other broken phrases.
It was a most difficult place for Rolf; he was tormented with thistles in his face and down his neck; he dared not change his position; and how long he must stay was a problem. He would try to escape when all was still.
The nearer soldiers settled to rest now. All was very quiet when Rolf cautiously peeped forth to see two dreadful things: first, a couple of sentries pacing up and down the edges of the camp; second, a broad, brilliant, rising moon. How horrible that lovely orb could be Rolf never before knew.
Now, what next? He was trapped in the middle of a military camp and undoubtedly La Colle Mill was the rendezvous for some important expedition.
He had ample time to think it all over. Unless he could get away before day he would surely be discovered. His uniform might save his life, but soldiers have an awkward, hasty way of dealing summarily with a spy—then discovering too late that he was in uniform.
From time to time he peered forth, but the scene was unchanged—the sleeping regiment, the pacing sentries, the ever-brightening moon. Then the guard was changed, and the sentries relieved selected of all places for their beds, the bank beside the hay-cock. Again one of them went to help himself to some hay for a couch; and again the comic anger as he discovered it to be a bed of thorns. How thankful Rolf was for those annoying things that pricked his face and neck.
He was now hemmed in on every side and, not knowing what to do, did nothing. For a couple of hours he lay still, then actually fell asleep. He was awakened by a faint rustling near his head and peered forth to see a couple of field mice playing about.
The moon was very bright now, and the movements of the mice were plain; they were feeding on the seeds of plants in the hay-cock, and from time to time dashed under—the hay. Then they gambolled farther off and were making merry over a pod of wild peas when a light form came skimming noiselessly over the field. There was a flash, a hurried rush, a clutch, a faint squeak, and one of the mice was borne away in the claws of its feathered foe. The survivor scrambled under the hay over Rolf's face and somewhere into hiding.
The night passed in many short naps. The bugle sounded at daybreak and the soldiers arose to make breakfast. Again one approached to use a handful of hay for fire-kindler, and again the friendly thistles did their part. More and more now his ear caught suggestive words and sounds—“Plattsburg”—“the colonel”—etc.
The breakfast smelt wonderfully captivating—poor Rolf was famished. The alluring aroma of coffee permeated the hay-cock. He had his dried meat, but his need was water; he was tormented with thirst, and stiff and tortured; he was making the hardest fight of his life. It seemed long, though doubtless it was less than half an hour before the meal was finished, and to Rolf's relief there were sounds of marching and the noises were drowned in the distance.
By keeping his head covered with hay and slowly raising it, he was safe to take a look around. It was a bright, sunny morning. The hay-cock, or thistle-cock, was one of several that had been rejected. It was a quarter-mile from cover; the soldiers were at work cutting timber and building a stockade around the mill; and, most dreadful to relate, a small dog was prowling about, looking for scraps on the scene of the soldiers' breakfast. If that dog came near his hiding-place, he knew the game was up. At such close quarters, you can fool a man but not a dog.
Fortunately the breakfast tailings proved abundant, and the dog went off to assist a friend of his in making sundry interesting smell analyses along the gate posts of the stockade.
This was temporary relief, but left no suggestion of complete escape. He lay there till nearly noon suffering more and more from the cramped position and thirst, and utterly puzzled as to the next move.
“When ye don't like whar ye air, git up without any fuss, and go whar ye want to be,” was what Sylvanne once said to him, and it came to Rolf with something like a comic shock. The soldiers were busy in the woods and around the forges. In half an hour it would be noon and they might come back to eat.
Rolf rose without attempting any further concealment, then stopped, made a bundle of the stuff that had sheltered him and, carrying this on his shoulder, strode boldly across the field toward the woods.
His scout uniform was inconspicuous; the scouts on duty at the mill saw only one of themselves taking a bundle of hay round to the stables.
He reached the woods absolutely unchallenged. After a few yards in its friendly shade, he dropped the thorny bundle and strode swiftly toward his own camp. He had not gone a hundred yards before a voice of French type cried “'Alt,” and he was face to face with a sentry whose musket was levelled at him.
A quick glance interchanged, and each gasped out the other's name.
“Francois la Colle!”
“Rolf Kittering! Mon Dieu! I ought to shoot you, Rolf; I cannot, I cannot! But run, run! I'll shoot over your head,” and his kindly eyes filled with tears.
Rolf needed no second hint; he ran like a deer, and the musket ball rattled the branches above his shoulders.
In a few minutes other soldiers came running and from La Colle they heard of the hostile spy in camp.
“I shoot; I t'ink maybe I not hit eem; maybe some brood dere? No, dat netting.”
There were both runners and trackers in camp. They were like bloodhounds and they took up the trail of the fugitive. But Rolf was playing his own game now; he was “Flying Kittering.” A crooked trail is hard to follow, and, going at the long stride that had made his success, he left many a crook and turn. Before two miles I they gave it up and the fugitive coming to the river drank a deep and cooling draught, the first he had had that day. Five miles through is the dense forest that lies between La Colle and the border. He struck a creek affluent of the Richelieu River and followed to its forks, which was the place of rendezvous with Quonab.
It was evening as he drew near and after long, attentive listening he gave the cry of the barred owl:
The answer came: a repetition of the last line, and a minute later the two scouts were together.
As they stood, they were startled by a new, sudden answer, an exact repetition of the first call. Rolf had recovered his rifle from its hiding place and instantly both made ready for some hostile prowler; then after a long silence he gave the final wail line “hoooo-aw” and that in the woods means, “Who are you?”
Promptly the reply came:
“Wa wah wa wah Wa wah wa hoooo-aw.”
But this was the wrong reply. It should have been only the last half. The imitation was perfect, except, perhaps, on the last note, which was a trifle too human. But the signal was well done; it was an expert calling, either an Indian or some thoroughly seasoned scout; yet Quonab was not deceived into thinking it an owl. He touched his cheek and his coat, which, in the scout sign language, means “red coat,” i. e., Britisher.
Rolf and his partner got silently out of sight, each with his rlile cocked and ready to make a hole in any red uniform or badge that might show itself. Then commenced a very peculiar duel, for evidently the enemy was as clever as themselves and equally anxious to draw them out of cover.
Wa-wah-wa hooo-aw called the stranger, giving the right answer in the wrong place. He was barely a hundred yards off, and, as the two strained their senses to locate him, they heard a faint click that told of his approach.
Rolf turned his head and behind a tree uttered again the Wa-wah-a—hoo which muffled by his position would convince the foe that he was retreating. The answer came promptly and much nearer:
Wa—wah—wa—hoooo-aw.
Good! the medicine was working. So Rolf softened his voice still more, while Quonab got ready to shoot.
The Wa—wa—hooo-aw that came in answer this time was startlingly clear and loud and nearly perfect in intonation, but again betrayed by the human timbre of the aw. A minute or two more and they would reach a climax.
After another wait, Rolf muffled his voice and gave the single hooo-aw, and a great broad-winged owl came swooping through the forest, alighted on a tree overhead, peered about, then thrilled them with his weird:
Wa—hoo—wa—boo
Wa—hoo—wa—hooooooooo-aw, the last note with the singular human quality that had so completely set them astray.
The owl's hull reputation for wisdom is built up on lookin'wise and keepin' mum.—Sayings of St Sylvanne
THE owl incident was one of the comedies of their life, now they had business on hand. The scraps of news brought by Quonab pieced out with those secured by Rolf, spelt clearly this: that Colonel Murray with about a thousand men was planning a raid on Plattsburg.
Their duty was to notify General Hampton without delay.
Burlington, forty miles away, was headquarters. Plattsburg, twenty miles away, was marked for spoil.
One more item they must add: Was the raid to baby land or water? If the latter, then they must know what preparations were being made at the British naval station, Isle au Noix. They travelled all night through the dark woods, to get there, though it was but seven miles away, and in the first full light they saw the gallant array of two warships, three gunboats, and about fifty long boats, all ready, undoubtedly waiting only for a change in the wind, which at this season blew on Champlain almost steadily form the south.
A three-hour, ten-mile tramp through ways now familiar brought Rolf and his partner to the north of the Big Chazy where the canoe was hidden, and without loss of time they pushed off for Burlington, thirty miles away. The wind was head on, and when four hours later they stopped for noon, they had made not more than a dozen miles.
All that afternoon they had to fight a heavy sea; this meant they must keep near shore in case of an upset, and so lengthened the course; but it also meant that the enemy would not move so long as this wind kept up.
It was six at night before the scouts ran into Burlington Harbour and made for Hampton's headquarters.
His aide received them and, after learning that they had news, went in to the general. From the inner room now they heard in unnecessarily loud tones the great man's orders to, “Bring them in, sah.”
The bottles on the table, his purple visage, and thick tongued speech told how well-founded were the current whispers.
“Raid on Plattsburg? Ha! I hope so. I only hope so. Gentlemen,” and he turned to his staff, “all I ask is a chance to get at them—Ha, Ha! Here, help yourself, Macomb,” and the general pushed the decanter to a grave young officer who was standing by.
“No, thank you, sir,” was the only reply.
The general waved his hand, the scouts went out, puzzled and ashamed. Was this the brains of the army? No wonder our men are slaughtered.
Now Macomb ventured to suggest: “Have you any orders, sir? These scouts are considered quite reliable. I understand from them that the British await only a change of wind. They have between one thousand and two thousand men.”
“Plenty of time in the morning, sah. Plattsburg will be the bait of my trap, not one of them shall return alive,” and the general dismissed his staff that he might fortify himself against a threatened cold.
Another young man, Lieut. Thomas MacDonough, the naval commandant, now endeavoured to stir him by a sense of danger. First he announced that his long boats, and gunboats were ready and in six hours he could transfer three thousand troops from Burlington to Plattsburg. Then he ventured to urge the necessity for action.
Champlain is a lake of two winds. It had brown from the south for two weeks; now a north wind was likely to begin any day. MacDonough urged this point, but all in vain, and, shocked and humiliated, the young man obeyed the order “to wait till his advice was asked.”
The next day Hampton ordered a review, not an embarkation, and was not well enough to appear in person.
The whole army knew now of the situation of affairs, and the militia in particular were not backward in expressing their minds.
Next day, July 30th, the wind changed. Hampton did nothing. On the morning of July 31st they heard the booming of guns in the north, and at night their scouts came with the news that the raid was on. Plattsburg was taken and pillaged by a force less than one third of those held at Burlington.
There were bitter, burning words on the lips of the rank and file, and perfunctory rebukes on the lips of the young officers when they chanced to overhear. The law was surely working out as set forth by Si Sylvanne: “The fools in command, the leaders in the ranks.”
And now came news of fresh disasters—the battles of Beaverdam, Stony Creek, and Niagara River. It was the same story in nearly every case—brave fighting men, ill-drilled, but dead shots, led into traps by incompetent commanders.
In September Lieutenant Macomb was appointed to command at Plattsburg. This proved as happy an omen as it was a wise move. Immediately after, in all this gloom, came the news of Perry's famous victory on Lake Erie, marking a new era for the American cause, followed by the destruction of Moraviantown and the British army which held it.
Stirred at last to action General Wilkinson sent despatches to Hampton to arrange an attack on Montreal. There was no possibility of failure, he said, for the sole defence of Montreal was 600 marines. His army consisted of 8000 men. Hampton's consisted of 4000. By a union of these at the mouth of Chateaugay River, they would form an invincible array.
So it seemed. Rolf had not yet seen any actual fighting and began to long for the front. But his powers as a courier kept him ever busy bearing despatches. The road to Sackett's Harbour and thence to Ogdensburg and Covington, and back to Plattsburg he knew thoroughly, and in his canoe he had visited every port on Lakes Champlain and George.
He was absent at Albany in the latter half of October and first of November, but the ill news travelled fast. Hampton requested MacDonough to “swoop down on Isle au Noix”—an insane request, compliance with which would have meant certain destruction to the American fleet. MacDonough's general instructions were: “Cooperate with the army, but at any price retain supremacy of the lake,” and he declined to receive Hampton's order.
Threatening court-martials and vengeance on his return, Hampton now set out by land; but at Chateaugay he was met by a much smaller force of Canadians who resisted him so successfully that he ordered a retreat and his army retired to Plattsburg.
Meanwhile General Wilkinson had done even worse. His army numbered 8000. Of these the rear guard were 2500. A body of 800 Canadians harassed their line of march. Turning to brush away this annoyance, the Americans were wholly defeated at Chrystler's farm and, giving up the attack on Montreal, Wilkinson crossed the St. Lawrence and settled for the winter at Chateaugay.
In December, America scored an important advance by relieving Hampton of his command.
As the spring drew near, it was clearly Wilkinson's first play to capture La Colle Mill, which had been turned into a fortress of considerable strength and a base for attack on the American border, some five miles away.
Of all the scouts Rolf best knew that region, yet he was the one left out of consideration and despatched with papers to Plattsburg. The attack was bungled from first to last, and when Wilkinson was finally repulsed, it was due to Macomb that the retreat was not a rout.
But good came out of this evil, for Wilkinson was recalled and the law was nearly fulfilled—the incompetents were gone. General Macomb was in command of the land force and MacDonough of the Lake.
MacDonough's orders were to hold control of the Lake. How he did it will be seen. The British fleet at Isle au Noix was slightly stronger than his own, therefore he established a navy yard at Vergennes, in Vermont, seven miles up the Otter River, and at the mouth erected earthworks and batteries. He sent for Brown (of the firm of Adam and Noah Brown) a famous New York shipbuilder. Brown agreed to launch a ship of twenty-four guns in sixty days. The trees were standing in the forest on March 2d the keel was laid March 7th, and on April 11th the Saratoga was launched—forty days after the timbers were green standing trees on the hills.
Other vessels were begun and pushed as expeditiously. And now MacDonough's wisdom in choice of the navy yard was seen, for a British squadron was sent to destroy his infant fleet, or at least sink stone-boats across the exit so as to bottle it up.
But their attempts were baffled by the batteries which the far-seeing American had placed at the river's mouth.
The American victory at Chippewa was followed by the defeat at Lundy's Lane, and on August 25th the city of Washington was captured by the British and its public buildings destroyed. These calamities, instead of dampening the spirits of the army, roused the whole nation at last to a realization of the fact that they were at war. Fresh troops and plentiful supplies were voted, the deadwood commanders were retired, and the real men revealed by the two campaigns were given place and power.
At the same time, Great Britain, having crushed Napoleon, was in a position to greatly reinforce her American army, and troops seasoned in Continental campaigns were poured into Canada.
All summer Rolf was busied bearing despatches. During the winter he and Quonab had built a birch canoe on special lines for speed; it would carry two men but no baggage.
With this he could make fully six miles an hour for a short time, and average five on smooth water. In this he had crossed and recrossed Champlain, and paddled its length, till he knew every bay and headland. The overland way to Sackett's Harbour he had traversed several times; the trail from Plattsburg to Covington he knew in all weathers, and had repeatedly covered its sixty miles in less than twenty-four hours on foot. The route he picked and followed was in later years the line selected for the military highway between these two camps.
But the chief scene of his activities was the Canadian wilderness at the north end of Lake Champlain. Chazy, Champlain, Odelltown, La Colle Mill, Isle au Noix, and Richelieu River he knew intimately and had also acquired a good deal of French in learning their country.
It was characteristic of General Wilkinson to ignore the scout who knew and equally characteristic of his successors, Izard and Macomb, to seek and rely on the best man.
The news that he brought in many different forms was that the British were again concentrating an army to strike at Plattsburg and Albany.
Izard on the land at Plattsburg and Champlain, and Macomb at Burlington strained all their resources to meet the invader at fair terms. Izard had 4000 men assembled, when an extraordinary and devastating order from Washington compelled him to abandon the battle front at Champlain and lead his troops to Sackett's Harbour where all was peace. He protested like a statesman, then obeyed like a soldier, leaving Macomb in command of the land forces of Lake Champlain, with, all told, some 3400 men. On the day that Izard left Champlain, the British troops, under Brisbane, advanced and occupied his camp.
As soon as Rolf had seen them arrive, and had gauged their number, he sent Quonab back to report, and later retired by night ten miles up the road to Chazy. He was well known to many of the settlers and was welcome where ever known, not only because he was a patriot fighting his country's battles, but for his own sake, for he was developing into a handsome, alert, rather silent youth. It is notorious that in the drawing-room, given equal opportunity, the hunter has the advantage over the farmer. He has less self-consciousness, more calm poise. He is not troubled about what to do with his feet and hands, and is more convinced of his native dignity and claims to respect. In the drawin-room Rolf was a hunter: the leading inhabitants of the region around received him gladly and honoured him. He was guest at Judge Hubbell's in Chazy, in September of 1814. Every day he scouted in the neighbourhood and at night returned to the hospitable home of the judge.
On the 12th of September, from the top of a tall tree on a distant wooded hill, he estimated the force at Champlain to be 10,000 to 15,000 men. Already their bodyguard was advancing on Chazy.
Judge Hubbell and anxious neighbours hastily assembled now, discussed with Rolf the situation and above all, “What shall we do with our families?” One man broke into a storm of hate and vituperation against the British. “Remember the burning of Washington and the way they treated the women at Bladensburg.”
“All of which about the women was utterly disproved, except in one case, and in that the criminal was shot by order of his own commander,” retorted Hubbell.
At Plattsburg others maintained that the British had harmed no one. Colonel Murray had given strict orders that all private property be absolutely respected. Nothing but government property was destroyed and only that which could be construed into war stores and buildings. What further damage was done was the result of accident or error. Officers were indeed quartered on the inhabitants, but they paid for what they got, and even a carpet destroyed by accident was replaced months afterward by a British officer who had not the means at the time.
So it was agreed that Hubbell with Rolf and the village fathers and brothers should join their country's army, leaving wives and children behind.
There were wet bearded cheeks among the strong, rugged men as they kissed their wives and little ones and prepared to go, then stopped, as horrible misgivings rose within. “This was war, and yet again, 'We have had proofs that the British harmed no woman or child'.” So they dashed away the tears, suppressed the choking in their throats, shouldered their guns, and marched away to the front, commending their dear ones to the mercy of God and the British invaders.
None had any cause to regret this trust. Under pain of death, Sir George Prevost enforced his order that the persons of women and children and all private property be held inviolate. As on the previous raid, no damage was done to non-combatants, and the only hardships endured were by the few who, knowing nothing, feared much, and sought the precarious safety of life among the hills.
Sir George Prevost and his staff of ten officers were quartered in Judge Hubbell's house. Mrs. Hubbell was hard put to furnish them with meals, but they treated her with perfect respect, and every night, not knowing how long they might stay, they left on the table the price of their board and lodging.
For three days they waited, then all was ready for the advance.
“Now for Plattsburg this week and Albany next, so good-bye, madam” they said politely, and turned to ride away, a gay and splendid group.
“Good-bye, sirs, for a very little while, but I know you'll soon be back and hanging your heads as you come,” was the retort.
Sir George replied: “If a man had said that, I would call him out; but since it is a fair lady that has been our charming hostess, I reply that when your prophecy comes true, every officer here shall throw his purse on your door step as he passes.”
So they rode away, 13,000 trained men with nothing between them and Albany but 2000 troops, double as many raw militia, and—MacDonough of the Lake.
Ten times did Rolf cover that highway north of Plattsburg in the week that followed, and each day his tidings were the same—the British steadily advance.